


the one who blooms in the bitter snow

by quantumoddity



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Single Parents, post molly's death, widower caleb
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2019-10-28 01:38:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17778152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumoddity/pseuds/quantumoddity
Summary: Pretty much everyone thinks Caduceus is weird.He runs a humble but comforting little cafe on the grounds of a cemetery. He's seven feet tall with shocking pink hair. His customers never smile.But he does what he can to help them in their grief. Particularly a sad eyed, red haired young father and his son who've just become his newest regulars.





	1. Chapter 1

Customers in Caduceus Clay’s teashop never had smiles on their faces.  

They came in with eyes red from crying, faces pale but for the red glaze of windburn, they came in looking haggard, tired. Some came alone, some came clutching the hands of others, leaning on them like they would lose their grip on reality entirely if they let go. Some wept silently at their tables, some had faces that seemed to be carved from stone and would never move again.  

They would never smile. But Caduceus saw to it that everyone left with the expression of someone who’s burden was ever so slightly lighter. That was all he hoped for.  

Caduceus’ tea shop was an undeniable part of the Blooming Grove, even though it had been built a good few years after the graveyard itself, which had been splayed out on the outlines of the city as one of the last few truly wild places left for miles around, for as long as anyone could remember. Quite deliberately, the vines with their wild roses had been allowed to grow up the side of the building and it’s cloud grey stones complimented the array of headstones, both ancient and fairly new, quite nicely. It leaned heavily against the outer wall of the cemetery itself but was turned rather discreetly away, overlooking the road instead, the vast open area with its scattered masonry hidden away behind flowering trees. Though Caduceus wouldn’t have minded one way or the other, he supposed the view was a result of the building having once been the groundskeeper’s home before he bought it, renovated it and turned it into his store.  

Nevertheless, he’d worked hard to turn it into what it was. Without a name- most people simply called it ‘the café in the cemetery’- it had become a place of quiet and peace. Muted colours, music so soft and low you couldn’t be sure it was really there but for the absence of deafening silence, the comforting smell of caffeine and sugar that could take the edge off any problem and, most importantly, just the presence of other people who were going through something similar to you. For years, he’d been adjusting and tweaking, making minor changes, finding the comfiest chairs even if the patterns didn’t match, cultivating plants with bright green leaves, interesting shapes, bright flowers to remind his patrons that life could still be beautiful. Caduceus had wanted a place where people could sit with their grief across the table from them, look it in the eyes, recognise it for it was, take it’s hand. And he’d got it pretty damn near perfect. 

Pretty much everyone thought Caduceus was weird, for a variety of reasons. His family thought it, primarily for leaving the family grove and moving to the city, where the air was full of noise and smoke rather than sunlight, something very few firbolgs would do. They’d expected their boy, who’d always been something of an oddball, to have his brief fling with teenage wanderlust, discover the rest of the world was a place of jagged concrete and bitter minds as they knew it to be, and then come running back.  

Which of course, he hadn’t. A decade later and Caduceus was still living in a small apartment he’d basically turned into a terrarium, much to the exasperation of his landlord, and spending his days in his café and the evenings doing a little groundskeeping around the cemetery. He even rode the  _ train _ . He could sometimes feel his family shuddering back home. 

The folks in the city thought Caduceus was weird for more conventional reasons. Mostly because he was a towering collection of stick thin limbs with dusky grey fur, ears like rainforest leaves that twitched continuously, a shockingly pink undercut and tail with a similarly pink pompom on the end of it. And because he worked in a cemetery. He imagined he was the only firbolg for a good few miles around, judging from the fact that he was still getting unusual looks when he spoke his mind and children’s jaws still dropped open when they saw him in the streets. He’d gotten used to all that, of course, his regulars knew him well and were very familiar with the odder aspects of his personality.  

Speaking of his regulars, Caduceus was realising he had a new one.  

There was a lull in the line for the counter so Caduceus had a moment to lean back against the far wall and watch the man and his son.  

He assumed the toddler was his son; they had the same rusty red hair and the same long nose, though the man’s was bent slightly in a suggestion of a past breakage. And the man’s eyes were constantly flickering to the young boy, his hands fluttering around him with the anxiousness of a worried parent.   

Apart from the handful of features, there didn’t seem to be much in common between them. The boy was plainly a tiefling, at least mostly, with skin that was a lovely shade of lavender and big red eyes that dominated his face and a tail that poked out of a specially made clasp in his dungarees, that was always whistling back and forth. And he was always brimming with energy, moving with a semi-successfully repressed fidgetiness and starting all his sentences in a shout before he dropped his voice, suggesting that, if they were anywhere else, he’d be bouncing off the walls.  

By contrast, his father was quiet and almost completely still, apart from his hands which were always playing with something, usually a coin or a small stone or a hair tie in a way that suggested barely contained anxiety. His face was always sombre and level, like it was made of still water and any motion would cause ripples, he always wore a leather coat, worn and patched and big enough to swallow him which Caduceus had no doubt was the intention. That and an overlong scarf with several dropped stitches along it’s body which he never removed, even on warm days.  

Though Caduceus hated to pry, he’d seen enough people in his café to read these two at a glance. It wasn’t a huge stretch of the imagination to realise that the one they were always visiting in the cemetery was the toddler’s other parent but, more than that, he could see that the father was shouldering the brunt of the grief, desperately trying to shield his son from it even as his own knees buckled and trembled with the weight of it. Where the son was always beaming, the father only smiled when his son was looking. Where the boy was neat and tidy apart from the odd stains of mud, grass or paint that could only be expected in children, the man’s hair looked barely brushed, let alone washed and his jaw was increasingly unshaven. Where the boy only had to yawn and the man would fold him into his lap and let him settle down into a carefree doze, the bags under his own eyes suggested maybe a couple of hours’ sleep, if that. He was always handing his son coins and sending him to Caduceus for little treats and more hot chocolates, he never ate a crumb himself even after his son would ask again and again; all he ever ordered was a small black coffee with no cream or sugar that, sometimes, he wouldn’t even touch.  

The more Caduceus saw, the more he found himself looking and wondering. He was a firm believer in people having their own private lives and dealing with their losses in their own way. But the man, who looked like he was barely into his thirties though he wasn’t sure how much of that was grief, seemed to draw his eye, for reasons he couldn’t fully put his finger on.  

And so, in his quieter moments, he found himself watching them and thinking about them, just like he was now.  

He was so lost in his own mind, Caduceus didn’t even realise one of the objects of his attention had left the table and come toddling up to the counter. He jumped guiltily when the small voice interrupted his thoughts. 

“Drink please and thank you!” the lavender skinned boy announced, putting a handful of coins on the wood between him and Caduceus. 

The firbolg gathered himself and smiled, “And what would you like, young man?” 

The small boy considered, his pug nose wrinkling as he thought, “Um...big grown up coffee like my papa, please.” 

Caduceus chuckled, resting his hands on the counter and regarding his little customer, “Is that what your papa wants you to get, do you think?” 

The little boy quailed, his ruse falling apart quickly, “No... hot chocolate, please and thank you.” 

“I think that’s a much better choice. It’ll taste nicer, I promise.” 

The tiefling smiled, reassured, and announced proudly, “I am Trinket.” 

Caduceus looked over his shoulder from where he was putting the order together, “Hello Trinket. My name’s Caduceus but you can call me Clay if you’d like. It's easier to say.” 

“Hello Clay,” Trinket nodded, happy to have the easier option. Caduceus had realised quite a while ago that his name was a little much for most people.  

After a little while, he presented his little patron with his usual order, a hot chocolate perfectly sized to impress a small person but not so much that he’d get a tummy ache, a tower of whipped cream rapidly bending under its own weight and enough marshmallows that they were careening over the side of the mug. Trinket’s tail swept from side to side excitedly, eagerly counting out his coins one last time, placing them in the firbolg’s open palm one by one.  

There was a pause then, as if the young boy was deciding whether or not to say something, the last coin lingering between his pudgy fingers. Caduceus didn’t prod or encourage, he merely tilted his head to the side, a silent invitation should he choose to take it.  

“My daddy gave me this coin,” Trinket confided eventually, lowering his voice, “He’s in heaven but he gives my papa presents to give to me, for when we visit him.”  

Caduceus smiled softly, nodding as if that made perfect sense. He reached over and closed Trinket’s fingers over the last coin, “Why don’t you told on to that one then? I’m sure your daddy would want you to spend it on something nice but you can save this one for another time.” 

Trinket looked confused, “But that’s not enough. I need to give you three big ones and five little ones. I’ve only given you five little ones and  _ two  _ big ones.” 

Caduceus shrugged, folding his arms on the counter, “That’s okay, I only need two this time. Think of it as like another present from your daddy.” 

A smile chased the confusion off his little face as if it had never existed, “Okay!”  

Caduceus helped him carry the mug over to the table, he could already see the disaster waiting to happen if Trinket were to try and do it himself. He felt oddly shy around the other man, Trinket’s papa, even though this was one of many simple interactions they’d had time and time again. A smile of thanks that never reached the man’s stark blue eyes, a little nod, before retreating back into his own mind. Though this time, something snagged his attention and held him there. He frowned, confused, at the coin still in his son’s hand. He looked like he was about to say something but Caduceus cleared his throat softly and gave a slight shrug, letting him know it was intentional.  

The man looked as if he didn’t quite know what to do with that at first, shaking his head dazedly and mouthing ‘thank you’ as Caduceus turned to go. But then he smiled, a much warmer, realer smile than any before. A smile with some life in it. 

Caduceus only nodded in response.  

Anything he could do to help, he did it. 

It had been a busy day, being a Saturday and all.  

There was never much to do in the way of tidying, just sweeping up and passing a mop over the floor and a cloth over the table tops, making sure all the cups, spoons and plates were washed. But seeing as it was just Caduceus, and he never did anything without giving it his full attention, the sun had disappeared from the sky by the time he’d finally finished.  

He slipped his coat on over his shoulders, the one his sister had sent him for his last birthday, teal green with pink patches to simulate the moss that covered the trees back home. It drew him even more curious glances than his fur and his hair combined but he adored it all the same.  

He was just freeing his hair from its usual work knot on the crown of his head when something caught his eye. Over in the table by the corner, the one near the window where Trinket and his papa always sat. He investigated, coming up with a long, deep green scarf with several dropped stitches, even more on closer inspection, trapped between the chair and the window.  

The man’s scarf. The one he so rarely took off and clutched like it was a lifeline. 

Caduceus felt a stab of pity, holding the ragged thing in his hands. He could smell coffee and the must of old books, the cold air outside, the scent of a much loved, much worn item. The wool was stretched from hundreds of removals and retrievals, so much wear and use.  

He would keep it behind the counter, he decided. Surely the man would come looking for it the next day, retracing his steps until he found it again. Or else he could give it to them the next time they were in the shop.  

Maybe earn another one of those smiles, the one that touched his starkly blue eyes and made them light up.  

Caduceus flicked his ears in annoyance at himself. Those kinds of thoughts would get him nowhere.  

As he went to fold the scarf carefully, he noticed a tag in amongst the fronds at the end. Being so clearly homemade, the scarf would have no need for a tag, unless it had been put there intentionally, specifically so he scarf could be returned immediately if it were lost. And sure enough, it held scrawly handwriting, the pen bleeding into the fabric, a name and address.  

Caleb Widogast. So that was his name.  

Caduceus frowned, he hadn’t wanted to find out that way, this felt like stealing. An intrusion. Barging into this clearly grieving widower’s apartment so late in the evening would be even more of an intrusion, an admittance of the stumbling he’d already done. Right?  

Or it would bring about another one of those smiles. Which, yes, he wanted to see for his own selfish reasons, but there was more to it than that. He wanted to give him a reason to feel something other than sadness for a moment. Cleary, this Mr Widogast did it all the time for his son. He deserved to be on the receiving end of it for a change.  

The apartment block proclaimed on the tag wasn’t too far from Caduceus’ own, it only meant getting off the subway two stops earlier, making a little detour through some side streets. It wasn’t the kind of neighbourhood Caduceus would imagine a family living in, a little off the beaten track, a little sketchy and the apartment block was a towering expanse of unkempt concrete, corridors of peeling wallpaper and carpets coming up where they met the wall. Plus, the elevator was broken and Caleb Widogast apparently lived on the seventeenth storey.  

Caduceus could take the stairs two at a time of course, though he couldn’t help imagining Trinket’s little legs tackling these at least twice every day or Caleb having to carry him. The thought made his mouth turn down at the edges.  

There was a sincere moment of hesitation when he found himself outside the right door. He had no doubt it was the right one, as there were a number of crayon drawings done in a childish hand on the door itself that had no doubt cost Caleb his security deposit but definitely did a lot to brighten up the place. But Caduceus forced himself to knock.  

Things belonged in their place and this scarf belonged with Caleb Widogast.  

It was a while before there was a scuffling and murmuring behind the door, like no one inside had been expecting a knock and who would at this hour? But eventually the door gave way, catching first on a chain before opening all the way.  

Caleb looked so much smaller without his coat, far skinnier, the old grey shirt and sweatpants he was wearing were struggling for parts of him to cling to so they could stay up. He’d taken off his glasses too, leaving red patches on his nose. All in all, he looked vulnerable, bewildered and Caduceus seriously regretted his decision.  

“I...um...” he wasn’t good with words at the best of times and this was very far from that, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...is just...you left your scarf at the café and I found the tag and...” He held it out limply by way of explanation.  

Caleb gave a soft, sharp inhale, eyes widening. Quick as anything, he took the scarf and clutched it to his chest like it was a lost kitten. When he looked back at Caduceus, his eyes were full of gratitude.  

“You found it...”  

He’d never heard him talk enough to notice his accent. It was lilting, the emphasis landing on awkward syllables, beautiful in its way. Zemnian, maybe? 

“I did, it was just where you were sitting this afternoon,” Caduceus said, relieved.  

“Thank the gods, I was...I was so worried...” Caleb’s voice thickened and he paused awkwardly, like he was suddenly aware this was not a normal level of attachment to have to an article of clothing. He hid the lower half of his face in the wool and murmured, “It’s just...my husband made it for me. Before he...I guess Trinket must have mentioned...” 

Caduceus nodded, understanding.  

“I don’t know what I would have done if I’d lost this,” Caleb stumbled over his words, “I was terrified I’d left it on the bus or in the park. I wanted to go out and look but there was no one to watch Trinket and he was so tired...” 

“Of course,” Caduceus smiled, tone soothing, he required no explanation, “I’m just glad I could help.”  

“You have,” Caleb exhaled like a weight had come off his chest, “You came all this way and in the dark too. Can I, um, make you a coffee before you go? As a thank you?” 

Caduceus smiled broadly, “I’d like that a lot.” 

The apartment interior was dominated by two things; books and children’s toys.  

Caduceus sat at the small dining table and admired the chaos happily, the bookshelves so overstuffed that they were spewing their contents into piles on the floor and the many brightly coloured boxes that were clearly an attempt at some kind of tidiness, clearly ignored with the many Legos and figurines and dolls spread across the carpet in childlike defiance. But under it all was a real sense of cosiness, cushions and patterned rugs and pictures on the wall.  

Pictures of a much younger Caleb with less than half the lines on his face he had now, alongside a tall, colourful, fairly androgynous tiefling with much more elaborate horns and a deeper purple colouring though everything else was absolutely identical to Trinket. There was the two of them in the middle of Central Park, on a beach that had to be the Menagerie Coast. The two of them in an unfamiliar apartment, on an unfamiliar sofa with the tiefling’s stomach prominently rounded out in what was obviously pregnancy.  

And then just Trinket, in all the photos that remained, sleeping, toddling, wrapped up in winter clothes, doing all the normal toddler things but alone in the frame.  

He smiled in every one but, still, there was a definite edge of loneliness to his little figure.  

Caleb came back with two mugs, smiling apologetically, “Sorry, we don’t really entertain much. Took me a while to find a second mug.” 

Caduceus smiled crookedly, taking his mug which was clearly made to fit a child’s hand and patterned loudly with characters from the Hercules movie, “No trouble at all.”  

“Trinket’s asleep,” Caleb explained, answering the question Caduceus had thought but not said aloud.  

“It is late,” he acknowledged, nodding, “Thank you for this, by the way. I didn’t return your scarf for any kind of reward but it’s much appreciated.” 

Caleb smiled, “You’re welcome. You’ve made me coffee enough times after all.”  

Caduceus chose his next words carefully, after a long sip of his coffee, “Caleb...forgive me if I’m overstepping here...but if there’s ever anything you need. For Trinket, for yourself...anything. I’m happy to help. You just have to say.” 

Caleb seemed startled, clearing his throat and staring into his cup, like that would instruct him what to say next, “Thanks, Caduceus. But, um...why? What am I to you?” 

It was a fair question and Caduceus answered honestly, “Someone who looks like he could use a friendly ear, or a shoulder. And I know you can’t exactly call us friends right now but I’d like to. Eventually.”  

Clearly people didn’t make these kinds of offers to Caleb Widogast often; he looked stunned.  

He finally found his voice, “I’ll keep that in mind, Caduceus. I promise I will.” 

 

For a while they sat and talked of small things, Caleb’s job running a bookstore in the city, how the flowers were coming in after a cold winter in the graveyard. They both realised with a start that it had gotten far later than it was really polite to stay at an acquaintance’s house and Caduceus shrugged his coat back on, promising to see Caleb at the cafe soon. 

He walked back to the subway station, unable to make his mouth stop grinning and not really caring to, his heart hammering in his chest even though he walked at a leisurely pace. 

He’d finally gotten one of his customers to smile. 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Caduceus has found a new friend in Caleb and he watches him grow happier, more comfortable in himself. He dares to hope that he's finally healing from the death of his husband.
> 
> He dares to hope for too much.

It was one of those days when he felt like he was utterly alone in the world. 

Caduceus looked up from the flowerbeds he was kneeling in front of and stretched out his back until he felt a series of dull pops, groaning in relief and raising his eyes to the sky. Still slate grey, still scattering fat raindrops down in erratic sheets. 

He smiled. 

He took the trowel from the loose grip of his tail and set back to repotting the seedlings in front of him. Days like this were perfect for them, nourishing and encouraging, the Wildmother welcoming them to the garden. 

That was why days like this didn’t drive him inside, the way it seemed to do for the rest of the world. The cemetery around him was completely deserted, fog clustering around the stones and the bases of the taller trees, the only true colour aside from greyish green being the dull stars of the flower heads, muted but beautiful still. 

Caduceus thought it incredibly beautiful. Though he could see why people thought his little corner of the city was sort of eerie on days like this.

The seedlings safe in their dark black soil, thick and healthful with the rain, Caduceus stood, shaking crumbs from his sodden knees, not caring really seeing as the rest of him was already sodden. His trusty straw hat kept the rain out of his eyes but nowhere else. 

There were other odd jobs to be done in the many thick gouts of plant life that sprung up all through the place. Weeding, pruning, scattering used coffee grounds from the café, telling off those who were being greedy with space, encouraging those who were flagging.

It was the kind of work Caduceus loved more than anything, the kind that was familiar, the kind he knew he could do well. He let his mind wander as he walked between the beds, the taller plants boughed by the weight of the rain, letting it drip down perfectly for their shorter cousins below. He would often sing or hum while he worked, something he worried contributed to people’s belief that the Blooming Grove was mildly haunted, when they would hear his lowing voice on misty days. 

But not today. It was past time he sent a letter to his mama back home, she worried if he didn’t send at least one a month. Well, she’d worry about him anyway but at least the letters served to reassure her that he hadn’t been hit by a bus. 

Mama had always worried about him, being the youngest and smallest of her gaggle of children. And when he’d announced he was leaving the clan- something firbolgs rarely did- to  move to the city- something firbolgs even more rarely did- she’d been close to locking his bedroom door so he couldn’t go. 

Caduceus smiled fondly as he knelt by a family of sweet peas whose trellis had gone lopsided. He’d always struggle to explain it to his mama, he knew that. Wanderlust was something that was supposed to be completely alien, something other. As such, there really weren’t words Caduceus could find to help his family understand why he’d decided to see some of the wider world and push the boundaries of their tiny corner where things were still allowed to grow wild. 

Caduceus set his jaw, feeling a raindrop run down the back of his short despite his hat. 

There were a lot of things he didn’t have words to explain, a lot of feelings and compulsions held inside him that he couldn’t categorise and sort, couldn’t make plain. Some he was less proud of. 

But his mama loved him. She understood that his life was his own. And if a letter every week or so would help her feel better, Caduceus would gladly write it. 

He used his teeth to bite off a length of twine from the roll in his pocket and began retying the bamboo sticks that held his sweet peas up out of the shade and thought about what he might write. 

He could tell her he’d joined a yoga class and how it wasn’t as fun as doing it in the dappled sunlight of the family grove with Clara trying to trip him at every available opportunity but it would suffice. He could tell her how he’d started making little scent bags out of his leftover lavender and vanilla pods to sell at the café and Caleb had said it was the first thing he’d ever found to actually help him sleep. He could tell her about how he’d made her recipe for mushroom risotto and took the leftovers to Caleb and how he’d said it was delicious. He could tell her how Caleb texted him sometimes when he needed someone to talk to. He could tell her how he was falling for Caleb. 

The slick, rain soaked wood slipped suddenly in his hands and Caduceus hissed, drawing his hand sharply back to see a large splinter embedded in his thumb, blood beading around it like yew berries. 

He groaned and swept his head from side to side, irritated with himself for more than not looking where his hands were going. 

He couldn’t be having those thoughts. They shouldn’t be in his mind at all, let alone in his letter to mama. 

Caduceus sat back in the wet grass, not caring as rain soaked into his trousers, worrying at the splinter with his teeth and trying to draw it out. 

He didn’t understand emotion as well as other people, that much he knew. His social skills would be considered stunted by most standards. But even he understood that thinking those things about someone who’d so recently been widowed, who clearly wasn’t healing well from it, who was vulnerable and anxious and broken inside, was a bad idea for everyone involved.

There was absolutely no purpose at all to longing after something that could only end in pain. Sometimes the briars were just too high, trying to clear them in the hopes that something good would be on the other side would earn yourself bleeding palms and little else. 

The splinter came free with a bite of pain. Caduceus tossed it into the grass and sucked at the blood that immediately welled up in the wound. He could take a hint. 

He took the long way back to the café, winding his way through the clusters of headstones. There was no neat grid system to the Blooming Grove, things were patchworked together, no size or shape uniform. Caduceus had inherited the dilapidated cemetery like that, time and disinterest having warped it into something far from neat. But even after all the care and attention he’d poured into it he’d kept it without regular squares, clear paths, any kind of uniformity. He liked it like that, he admired the way it had grown free like a wild oak tree twisting and curving erratically towards the sun of its own free will.  

That was how it had chosen to be and he wouldn’t dare tell it any different. 

Lugging his bag of gardening tools over his shoulder, he rounded the next corner, finally allowing himself to imagine the honey cake he’d reward himself with when he got back inside. 

And saw Caleb standing in the middle of the uncovered pathway, under the arch of hawthorn trees.

He was turned away from Caduceus so he thankfully didn’t see him freeze in ungainly surprise or his fur puff up and send rainwater flying. But, unfortunately he couldn’t miss the loud shout of shock that also leapt out of him and startled several birds from the trees above. 

Caleb turned, eyes wide and fearful at first but they softened as soon as he recognised his very wet, very embarrassed firbolg friend. 

“Hi there,” he called once he was close enough to be heard over the pounding rain. He looked, rather unfortunately, like a drowned rat even more than Caduceus did. Water ran in rivulets down his face, his many layers were dark and dripping and his hair was plastered to him. By the looks of things he’d long ago given up on moving it out of his eyes. 

Who went out in the rain without a good hat on their head? 

“Hello, Mr Caleb,” he smiled, “What are you doing out here?”

Caleb gave a wan smile, “What does anyone ever do here?” He inclined his head back towards where he’d been standing in front of one of the graves. His husband’s, Caduceus realised. He’d never looked for it before but he could see now it was one of the newest ones. In amongst some very old ones, strangely, he wondered why that was. 

“Of course,” Caduceus smiled back, “I more meant everyone else seems to be hiding from the weather, not going out in it.” 

Caleb looked abashed, once of the many expressions that looked unfairly adorable on him, “I know…I didn’t have any clothes right for the weather but Trinket’s at playgroup and the apartment was so quiet, I…I didn’t want to be alone…”

There was a long, stiff moment where the two of them realised how wet they were getting and how there was no sensible way to navigate themselves out of this conversation. 

Eventually Caduceus just sighed and smiled a little, “Caleb?”

The human looked up, of course he always had to look up to meet the firbolg’s eyes. Rain slid down his face, looking like tears. 

“It’s really good to see you,” Caduceus murmured. 

 

The café was dark, a little naked without the music and the smells of sugar and coffee, the people at the tables. But it was calm, it was dry and it had tea. That was all Caleb needed right now. 

He’d started sniffling before they’d taken five steps, his breathing wheezy and ragged by the time they reached the door. Caduceus’ fur kept him good and insulated but after one look at Caleb he’d known he had a nasty chill on the way.

Fortunately, he kept a tin of the perfect remedy for that down behind the counter, hand tied bags of muslin he would often press on customers who came in with runny eyes, sniffles and coughs. 

While Caduceus poured, Caleb gingerly stripped down to his shirt, darkened with rain on the shoulders and chest but it was as dry as he could get. Still, it clung to his body in ways that Caduceus caught when his eyes flickered up from the mugs and held in his mind greedily until the guilt twisted again and made him drop them. 

“So how is Trinket finding preschool now? Settling in?” he asked, a little more loudly than really necessary to cover his own thoughts. 

Caleb looked up from pulling his boots off, distracted immediately by the mention of his son, leaving him with one large black boot on and one stripey orange sock with a hole in the toe. 

“He was so excited to go today,” he sighed, sounding proud and sad as only a parent who’d only recently sent their only child off to school could be, “He didn’t cry at all, he let go of my hand straight away and ran through the gates. He only just remembered to wave to me.” 

Caduceus smiled fondly, bringing their cups over already redolent with the smells of cinnamon and lemon, a puddle of deep golden honey right at the bottom, “He was always going to take to it like a duck to water. I’m positive he’ll be there tonight with a huge hug, ready to tell you how he missed you like crazy.”

Caleb looked so open heartedly grateful for those words that Caduceus almost couldn’t bear it. The trust it showed, coming from a man who’d spent the last four years stitching himself back together with shaking hands and was terrified of letting anyone else find loose threads. 

He was especially vulnerable right now, with Trinket starting preschool- nursery school to his Zemnian father. There was a time when Caleb would rather have lost his own hands between the hours of 9am and 3pm, three times a week, rather than his son. 

The fact that he was bearing it so well, still functioning through his anxiety over the loss of control when before it would have bent him double and froze him, was a testament to how far he’d come. Caduceus felt so proud of him for that, for eventually wading tentatively into bereavement therapy, for getting back into a more regular work schedule, for making so many incremental but incredibly important steps since they’d first met in this café. 

Caduceus hoped he’d helped Caleb get there, in some small way. 

Caleb took a deep drink from the mug though as soon as he swallowed, he began to cough, a deep wheezing cough as thick and dark as the clouds that had caused it.

Caduceus winced, “We need to get you dry and warm.” 

“I’m kind of down to my last clothes here?” Caleb said, raspy voiced, plucking at his damp shirt. 

“But all of the tea in the world won’t help if we don’t fix that,” Caduceus turned towards his back room, “I must have a clean blanket around here somewhere.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you did have all of the tea in the world here,” Caleb went for a smile but it was interrupted by a hacking cough, one that left him shivering, “Fuck, I can’t get sick, Trinket will get it…”

“Well…that’s a possibility,” Caduceus allowed, coming back in with the softest blanket he’d been able to find, a fairly easy task seeing as he rarely bought any for the café that weren’t thick and soft as fleece, “But also you’d be sick. And that’s bad in itself.”

Caleb looked up, the thought obviously not having registered until Caduceus said it, “Well…yeah, I guess.” 

Caduceus frowned, turning his back delicately while Caleb stripped off his shirt and pants that were clinging to him like a second skin, though his large ears twitched at every whisper of fabric against skin. He sighed and grabbed hold of the loose trail of hair, wringing the rain out of it sharply, hoping those thoughts would wash out as easily. 

“Caleb…you know it’s okay to worry about yourself every now and again…” his distracting annoyance at himself made his tongue more daring.

“You told me to worry less,” came the slightly pointed reply, “And you can turn around now.”

There was a moment then, after Caduceus’ eyes slid down Caleb’s makeshift red tartan toga, before he sharply brought them back up again, when it seemed to occur to both men that Caleb was essentially naked in front of his friend. His friend who was quickly finding himself falling more and more for him, as much as he tried to deny it. Though Caleb wasn’t to know that, at least Caduceus desperately hoped he didn’t. 

“I know I did,” the firbolg sighed, deciding even that emotionally testing conversation would be better than going any further down that trail of thought, “But you’re allowed to have a bit of…concern, let’s call it, for yourself. It doesn’t always need to be about you protecting Trinket or anyone else.” 

Caleb idly flicked one of the tassels on the blanket, feet shifting awkwardly, “It is though. That’s…that’s all I’ve got left, looking after Trinket. Keeping him safe.” He flinched, face colouring red, “Sorry. That was too much. Sometimes I say things and I don’t think about whose in the room…”

“No,” Caduceus’ voice was soft, his hand even softer as he reached out and pressed Caleb’s shoulder, “You don’t have to say sorry. I’m glad you said it.” 

“But it’s a horrible thing to think, isn’t it?” Caleb gripped the blanket tighter, voice taut like a drawn bow, “He’s my whole world, my Mollymauk gave everything to bring him here, I love him so much…but gods, every time I look at him…” 

Caduceus sensed his words running out, wanting him to know someone was still listening. He got the heart breaking impression that Caleb had been missing exactly that for a very long time. 

“What?”

Caleb shook his head, voice now clearly splintering like ice, “I just want to feel something other than grief. I just want to put it down for a little while, that’s all…”

The rain beat on the windows, marbling and warping what little light there was outside, casting it in waves across the two of them. Caleb looked up, following the ebb of it, meeting Caduceus’ eyes. The helplessness in them was worse than the sight of blood caught in his own fur. 

“Please tell me I’m not wrong to want that?” Caleb murmured, his voice less than a whisper. 

Caduceus was so rarely still, his ears and tail nearly always twitching as the world went by around him. But he was still now, nothing else in the world mattered to him but Caleb In front of him. 

“No,” he said softly, “You’re not wrong.” 

With the look in his eyes, he shouldn’t have been surprised when Caleb kissed him. But it was so sweet, so soft, so vulnerable, the kiss of a drowning man, he couldn’t help but give a brief gasp of shock.

Caleb drew back at that, pale everywhere but the tips of his ears which were bright red. The blanket slipped a little, showing a thin chest covered in rust coloured hair. 

“I’m sorry…” he started, but Caduceus stopped him with one large hand, coming up to cup his face tenderly. 

“You don’t have to say sorry.”

This time, Caduceus kissed him. So he could never say he was entirely blameless. 

 When he imagined kissing Caleb, Caduceus had always imagined himself bent slightly, compensating for their height difference. But instead, Caleb came to him by rising on the balls of his feet, practically climbing him, to bring their lips together so hard it almost hurt. Hands roved, never settling in one place. Caleb was the far less shy of the two, immediately pulling at the laces of Caduceus’ pants, letting them fall to just above his knees. His linen shirt covered him still but now the shape of his erection was even more prominent. 

When they broke apart, they were both panting, lungs burning, neither of them having realised they were prioritising kissing over oxygen. 

“Fuck me,” Caleb panted, pupils blown wide like a cat in the dark, “Cad, please.” 

Caduceus’ heart fluttered at the nickname and he felt like a teenager again in the blush of realising what wanting truly was. The doubts he’d always nursed about Caleb not finding him physically attractive dissipated. 

And fresh doubts about everything else they were doing surged up stronger than before, a tide he wasn’t going to be able to outrun. 

No matter how much he wanted to.

Caduceus took a step backwards, in his mind and in the space, “Caleb, listen…”

“What?” the blanket was around his waist now, slipping open just enough that Caduceus could see…

“We can’t do this, Caleb, not right now,” he shook his head regretfully, “Not like this.”

“But…I want to?” fear had begun to creep into his eyes, an uncertainty. 

“You’re upset and that’s completely understandable but…it would be too much like taking advantage. I won’t do that to you.” 

“I want this, I promise,” Caleb insisted, hands shaking, “I do, I miss it. I miss you so much Mol-…”

He stopped. Caduceus stopped. Everything stopped. But it was too late. 

Caduceus took another step back, pulling his trousers back up, lacing them tighter than before. Caleb, sickeningly pale, hands at his mouth as if he could stuff the words back in and have them never be said, looked like he wanted to say something. 

Eventually the words came, like blood from a wound, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry Caduceus.” 

Caduceus nodded, “I think your clothes will be dry now. Here’s a box of the tea but if you keep coughing, go see a doctor, okay?” 

He turned and quickly busied himself behind the counter, moving around jars of coffee beans that didn’t need rearranging, resolutely not lifting his eyes. 

“Caduceus, please…”

“It was good to see you, Caleb. Come by any time.” 

More sifting of fabric, and a muffled sob before the rain grew momentarily louder, buoying the sound of the bell ringing out as the door opened and closed. Caduceus finally felt safe then to look up, seeing his blanket puddled on the chair, still in the vague shape of Caleb’s body, two cooling mugs on the table. 

With a deep sigh, Caduceus sat by them, taking his and drinking for something to do with his hands. The rain was falling as strong as ever, so implacable and constant he wondered if it would ever stop.

And once again he felt alone in the world. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Valentines Day present for my incredibly lovely girlfriend. She's a writer too and she's amazing, check out her stuff here @childofdustandashes or on Tumblr @soft-bram.
> 
> Myself, I'm @mollymauk-teafleak on Tumblr and I post masses of head canons for so many AUs and you're very welcome to come check it out.
> 
> Please leave a comment!


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